Courage
by emptycel
Summary: TEENLOCK and (clean) JOHNLOCK John was hoping that he could use the Homecoming dance as a way of getting his roommate off of his mind. Sherlock, however, had some very different plans for the evening.


(A/N: My school's Homecoming dance is this week, so I couldn't resist the idea of a trite little Teenlock/Johnlock story. I'm sure this plot already exists in a thousand variations, but I just thought I would take a break from my [considerably more serious] running story and have some fun.)

"Have a little courage, mate," John said to a friend of his, nudging his arm playfully. "She's only a girl, what's she going to do to you?"

"Yeah, and a wasp is only a bug," the friend said, rolling his eyes. "She could humiliate me!"

John adjusted the cuffs of his button up shirt. He and a couple mates had shown up to the Homecoming dance dateless, hoping to meet a cute girl who had previously gone overlooked. The only problem was that no one seemed to have the guts to ask anyone to dance.

"It's not like you're asking anyone, Watson," someone commented. "You haven't danced once, either. Put your money where your mouth is."

"I'm just looking for the right person," John said evasively, hoping that his reddened cheeks weren't visible in the dimmed light of the gymnasium. Of course John knew that he wouldn't be asking anyone. He had lost interest in most girls ever since—

"Hey, your freaky roommate isn't coming to this thing, is he?" another asked. John bristled, wondering who was stupid enough to say that. Most of his friends had learned by now that he was protective of his roommate.

"He said that school dances were tedious," John said, biting back a rude remark. "He didn't want to show up."

"Good," some bloke muttered. "The kids a freak, but none of the girls can take their eyes off him."

9:00 p.m.

…

John slipped outside of the gymnasium for a breath of fresh air. He was having a miserable time and trying not to show it in front of any of his friends, especially considering that they were the primary cause of his discomfort. He had grown farther and farther apart from them over the past two months. What had once been easy, goofy companionship had turned annoying and boring.

_Dull. _

He _had_ thought that his room assignment in September was a social death sentence. The rooming was random, and as soon as he found out that he had been saddled with the school freak, he legitimately considered switching schools.

Sherlock was frustrating, obsessive, and occasionally violently moody. It was disturbing and impossible to get used to, but also strangely fascinating.

All it took was one case, one adventure that John somehow got dragged along on and he was sold to the beautiful madman with ivory skin and silver eyes.

_I'm flattered by your interest John—_

John cringed at the remembered rejection.

-_but it wouldn't be appropriate for roommates to become involved in such a way, wouldn't you agree? _

10:30 p.m.

…

"Where did you scuttle off to?" a mate asked.

"Getting some air," John replied. "It's gotta been a hundred degrees in here."

Everyone was slick with sweat, some from grinding on their dates, some from doing the Macarena for an hour, and some from simply standing in the corner and chatting.

The food was bad, the company was annoying, the air was impossible to breathe, and the music was utter crap. John had been wondering for the past hour why he had bothered with this dance, why he had talked it up so much to Sherlock. Lord knows that the aspiring detective would have bolted from the room within the first twelve seconds.

"Ask anyone to dance yet?" someone asked.

"No," John replied shortly. "I don't think I will."

"'Have a little courage,'" they mocked.

John faked a smile.

10:56 p.m.

…

"Would you like to dance?" a girl asked John.

"No, thank you," he said on reflex before he realized what an utter arse he appeared. He hadn't even looked at her. "I mean, sure," he stuttered, then winced at his overcorrection.

The girl looked half confused and half pleased. John recognized her as yet another nameless female in one of his classes. A year ago he would probably have had her name, and all the names of her cute friends, committed to memory. As it was, he could only remember that she was a redhead with startlingly dark blue eyes. Beautiful by anyone's standards, and yet to John she was exceedingly…

_Dull. _

John nearly groaned aloud, wishing he could get Sherlock out of his head. He took a deep breath, grabbed the girl's hand, and led her to the dance floor where he decided to pretend to enjoy himself until she invariably got bored and moved on. He just hoped it would be soon. Sulking in the corner had been the best part of the evening.

11:32 p.m.

…

_Does this woman ever stop dancing? _The clock on the wall informed him that it was very nearly midnight and the girl, Victoria, he finally remembered, kept exclaiming enthusiastically that she _loved _whatever top 40 song the D.J. decided to play next.

John was resisting the impulse to pull out his phone and see if Sherlock texted him. Instead he gritted his teeth in the falsest semblance of a smile ever created and agreed with the merits of whatever hellish dub-step/pop monstrosity that was playing.

He was about to pull away politely when the gym doors flew open with a loud crash. Instinctively, he rushed forwards to see what happened. It looked as though someone had been thrown against the door with a tremendous amount of force; enough to throw the doors open violently. The victim was still on the ground for a moment before he struggled to his feet.

John recognized the lanky frame in a heartbeat.

"Sherlock!" he called, rushing to his friend's side.

"It would appear," Sherlock said absently, rubbing his shoulder, "that a three piece tux is not appropriate to wear to a school dance. I don't want to extrapolate based on a single point of data, but the response seems to be insults and violence."

"What did they do?" John asked, a cold fury seeping through his veins. John was a passive person with a slow temper, but when it hit, it hit with a murderous passion. "I swear to God Sherlock, if they hurt you-"

"Calm down John," Sherlock said, rolling his eyes. "I put one on the ground before the other one decided that the door and I should get acquainted. I can take care of myself. As far as the names went, 'gay,' 'freak,' and several vile synonyms were uttered before the violence ensued. Violence I'm afraid I _might _have started."

"You idiot," John said, brushing dirt from the floor off Sherlock's jacket.

Sherlock wasn't kidding. He had arrived decked out in a full tuxedo, complete with bow tie and cummerbund. John flushed slightly at the sight. Sherlock looked absolutely fantastic swathed in black satin and silk.

_Chiaroscuro_. The term popped unbidden into John's head, a relic from some much despised art class. An artistic style of bold black lines against a white background. That was what Sherlock reminded him of. Black hair and tux against white skin and pale silver eyes.

Breathtaking.

John cleared his throat and shifted from foot to foot.

"So," he finally hedged. "What are you doing here?"

"Well," Sherlock said, glancing around the gym skeptically. "You appeared so enthusiastic about this ridiculous adolescent ritual that I thought I might at least observe. Are those two over there…dancing? Is that what they think dancing looks like? Because that is definitely not dancing."

John laughed. "I'm afraid that's what most of our classmates consider dancing to be, yes."

Sherlock grimaced for a moment before a flash of something sparked in his eyes. He looked at John uncertainly, cocking his head slightly to the side.

"Care to show them what dancing _should _look like?" Sherlock asked, looking playing, mischievous, and, John prayed, slightly hopeful.

_Have a little courage,_ John told himself.

"Of course."

11:54 p.m.

…

"You seem uncertain," Sherlock murmured, although his own façade of confidence was a bit betrayed by a tremor in his voice.

"Never actually danced this way before," John confessed. "So…are you leading?"

"Of course," Sherlock said, putting his left hand on John's waist and clasping right hand to John's left. "Put your other hand on my shoulder," Sherlock instructed imperiously. John laughed and did as he was bid; trying to pretend that there wasn't a curious throng of people gathering around them.

"It's a good thing I'm shorter," John muttered. The side of Sherlock's mouth quirked up into a smile.

"Yes, I suppose it helps," Sherlock said. "Now, just follow where I lead. It's going to be difficult to dance to this horrible music, but I think that we'll manage something." Sherlock paused for a moment, listening. "Fortunately this song has a more moderate tempo and is, surprisingly, in three-four time. We will be able to waltz."

Sherlock took a step and John followed clumsily.

Sherlock smiled and bent his head down to John. "Relax," he said into John's ear. "Let your limbs go loose and let me guide you."

John nodded, his heart hammering so loud that Sherlock _had _to be able to hear it, or at last feel it in their tightly clasped hands. John was breathing irregularly and trying to keep his mind from straying places that it really shouldn't stray when the two were this close. Not much would be left up to the imagination.

Sherlock continued to guide him, and John's awareness slowly faded out. He ignored the guys yelling rude, derogatory things and the girls tittering at each other. He just watched Sherlock watch him, lost in quicksilver eyes that were growing dark around Sherlock's dilating pupils.

"You were right," Sherlock said, smiling again. "This is enjoyable."

"It's not usually this good," John said fervently. He flushed when he realized exactly what he said and wished he could capture the words and put them back in his mouth.

"John," Sherlock began, a small hitch in his breath.

Whatever he was going to say was drowned out as the old clock tower on the far end of the academy began ringing out the start of a new day.

12:00 a.m.

…

Later, John honestly wouldn't honestly be able to say who initiated it, only that it was happening.

John was suddenly clutching at the lapels of Sherlock's coat and Sherlock was roughly scrabbling to find purchase on the back of John's shirt, finally settling on gripping John as tightly to him as he could, tracing the occasional long finger down John's spine.

And _ohmygodohmygodohmygod_. Instantly Sherlock was kissing John and John was kissing back and _oh my God, Sherlock is soft and sweet and beautiful and perfect and touching me and oh my God this is happening Sherlock how what why ohmygodohmygod. _

Their mouths were pressed together, hot and moving, clinging and needing. John broke away with a gasp and traced kisses along the line of Sherlock's jaw, leaving a fiery trail in his wake.

Impatiently, Sherlock grabbed John by the back of his head and pulled their mouths together again. The kiss calmed down, going from something passionate and, quite frankly, nowhere near appropriate for a school function, into something deep, slow, and loving.

Lips throbbing and, undoubtedly, swollen, John pulled away with a long look into Sherlock's eyes.

"Let's go," John said, lacing his fingers through Sherlock's and tugging him through the shocked and largely amused crowd. There were some expressions of anger and disgust, a few from people John once called friends, but John Watson honestly couldn't bring himself to care.

12:08 a.m

…

"I'm amazed no chaperones saw that," John gasped, pulling Sherlock through the door. He couldn't help but wonder what they looked like, and shuddered with mortification to think of what desperate, dirty sounds they were making.

"Don't be ridiculous, John," Sherlock said with a grin. "Of course I timed my entrance perfectly. Most of the chaperones have abandoned their post by now or gone to seek a moment's sanity in the bathroom. I couldn't have administration spoiling everything."

John stopped. "Are you saying you planned all of that?" he asked, incredulous.

"Of course," Sherlock said, sounding affronted, as if he would have done anything less. "I couldn't have a teacher see us; they probably would have tried to found new roommates for the two of us. I couldn't have that, not when I've finally decided all the clever ways I could put our dorm to good use."

John turned bright red and tried to focus on remaining in the present instead of getting lost in fantasy. Of course he would have thought it through, the bloody brilliant nutter. If admin ever got word that they were _together _they would be reassigned in a heartbeat.

"Whatever happened to 'I'm flattered'?" John asked with a grin.

"It _was _true," Sherlock said musingly. "This isn't appropriate at all." That was accompanied by a very wicked smile. "But I had just found you, and I didn't want to risk your loss. If we had started something and been discovered, we would have been moved and…" Sherlock blushed. "I was afraid you would lose interest in me."

"What on Earth are you talking about?" Lose interest in Sherlock? John had spent the last two months wishing that was even possible.

"I had seen you around campus for years," Sherlock explained. "We never spoke. It was only once we were assigned the same room that you paid any attention to me. I was afraid that once you were no longer obligated to tolerate me, you would move on."

"That is absolutely ridiculous."

"I know that _now_," Sherlock said, rolling his eyes. "And I know that if admin _does _find us together and chooses to move us…you will still stand by me, right?"

Sherlock looked so pitifully vulnerable that John could stop himself from gently taking the young man's head in his hands and pulling him down to kiss him until they were both gasping and nearly out of their senses.

"No matter what," John promised, pulling away with herculean effort.

"In that case," Sherlock said, his eyes bright with arousal. "We have quite a bit of time before the other students stumble back to their dorms. I say we finally take full advantage of our room."

John felt butterflies erupt in his stomach. He had no experience in this area. Anticipation, desire, and fear mixed together in a volatile combination that both heightened his arousal and make him want to throw up.

He took a deep breath. _Courage._

"God yes," John finally moaned, the utterance a declaration in itself, and crushed Sherlock close for a rough kiss. "Let's go," he said, and tugged Sherlock by the hand, taking the lead for the first time.

12:20 a.m.

Not that the time mattered anymore.

(A/N: Like I said, this was just a silly little story, but I still would appreciate a review or two. They make me smile, even when they're largely criticism. :D)


End file.
